by Jan Constant
Anstey forced down a few more mouthfuls before resolutely putting down her knife and fork and watching while her companion demolished a good portion of the steaming pudding put before him.
“And now, Miss Frazer,” he said as the table was cleared, “pray present to me your wrists.” Immediately Anstey defensively hid her hands in her lap, eyeing him apprehensively across the table.
“I wish to make sure - I have seen blood-poisoning result from even a small wound—”
“And you want me to reach London in good health - I know,” she finished for him and wearily proffered her hands.
She shivered at his touch as he pushed back the lace cuffs of her shirt to reveal her raw wrists, the purple marks of his previous grip showing clearly. His eyes flickered at the sight of her bruises, but he said nothing, only sending for water and salves.
Quickly and efficiently he washed and bandaged her wrists, while Anstey surreptitiously watched his face as he went about his task. His powdered hair contrasted strangely with his tanned skin, his black eyebrows and lashes making his grey eyes seem pale by comparison. The shadows cast by the candles highlighted his thin nose and the long planes of his cheeks.
Looking up suddenly, he caught her examining gaze upon him and for a moment their eyes joined and held, before Anstey hastily looked away and he returned to his task.
That night Anstey lay upon her hard, narrow bed wishing for the sleep that eluded her and found herself wondering upon the colour of the Englishman’s hair; black, she supposed if one was to judge by his eyebrows ... or dark brown.
They left Perth in a downpour, taking the road through Glen Eagles in rain so heavy that the short, steep glen was almost obscured and they all sank into their thick frieze cloaks and rode in acute discomfort and misery. Riding without a break, they arrived at Stirling Castle wet and dispirited. Immediately Captain Ward was hurried away to make his report to the commander of the garrison, and Anstey locked in a cell.
With cold rivulets of water trickling down her back, she dropped her soaking cloak at her feet and took in her surroundings. The tiny slit that served to let in air and some light was set high in the wall, while a mean straw palliasse on a wooden frame was the only furniture.
The soldier who brought her a bowl of stew demanded her cloak, explaining that Captain Ward wanted it dried, but apart from that she saw no one until morning, when the same trooper brought breakfast of bread and ale. Her clothes had dried upon her and she awoke stiff and cold with the beginnings of a headache, and found herself inordinately glad to leave the inhospitable fortress behind. Glancing up at the huge, impregnable rock as they left the town behind, Anstey could admire its position and strength, recalling that Jacobites had besieged the fortress earlier, but could find no sorrow in her heart to be leaving.
The rain of the day before had left the road a surface of mud, in some places the track was washed away and they had to dismount and lead their horses. By the time they halted for the midday meal, a faint, watery sun had broken through the clouds and Anstey was grateful for the slight warmth as she sat on a boulder to eat the inevitable bread and cheese.
Captain Ward had seated himself nearby and she was intrigued to see him take a small package out of his pocket, break the seal and examine the contents, which appeared to be a locket of some kind before, holding it in his hand, he began to read the writing on the paper which had enclosed it. His reading appeared to afford him little pleasure, for his black brows drew together in a frown and his eyes having travelled to the bottom of the page, returned quickly to the top again as he began to read it anew.
Much interested, Anstey watched him surreptitiously, and when he dropped the locket as he rewrapped it in the paper, sprang to her feet before he could retrieve it and seized the little gold case. It had sprung open in its fall and she found herself staring at a beautiful face surrounded by fair hair. Delicate brows above vivid blue eyes and a red, curved mouth completed the picture.
“Isabel!” she gasped, raising a bewildered face to the Englishman. “What are you doing with a portrait of my sister?”
“Who do you say it is?” he asked slowly.
Anstey looked from him to the painted face in her hand, her brain working speedily. Now that she looked more closely, she could see small differences that made the likeness less, but at first glance it could have been her sister’s face lying in her palm.
“Who is it?” she asked.
“Leo Smythe’s wife.”
With an audible gasp Anstey looked up quickly. “So that’s why he—” she began, breaking off as she realized the inadvisability of her words.
“Why what, Miss Frazer?”
“Why - he said there was a likeness between his wife and my sister.”
“I thought you said your sister was out when he came to your house.”
“So she was,” agreed Anstey hastily, realizing her mistake. “I meant a likeness to Isabel’s portrait.”
Grey eyes looked steadily down at her. “There seem to be enough paintings around to please any impecunious artist,” he remarked drily, opening the locket as it was returned to him and studying the painted face with interest. “Strange that two women so far apart should be so alike,” he mused.
“I daresay it’s quite superficial, and if they were to be put side by side, one would see nothing out of the ordinary.”
“Unfortunately we cannot put it to the test - Mrs. Smythe is dead, have you forgot?”
Anstey looked down at her muddy boots. “For the moment,” she acknowledged.
“Why do you have the locket?” she asked, as they mounted and formed a double file.
“Leo had asked me previously to return it to his family if anything happened to him.”
“And the babe - did it live?”
“Yes,” he answered shortly and gave the order to move off.
“Where is it?”
The glance he shot her was a little intimidating. “Let me tell you, Miss Frazer, that I find your interest in the child of the man done to death at your hands, somewhat distasteful,” he told her bluntly.
Flushing and biting her lip, Anstey tightened her hold on the reins and stared down at her hands. “I - only wondered if it was being cared for - loved,” she said in a choked voice.
“As far as I know she is still in the house of her maternal grandmother,” he said shortly, after a pause and urging his horse into a trot, left her and rode to the head of the column.
As though by mutual consent Anstey and James Ward avoided each other as much as possible for the rest of that day, but she was aware that his eyes often rested upon her with speculation in his grey gaze when he thought himself unobserved.
Late that afternoon they came upon a place where a spring rushing out of the hillside above the road had washed the track away, leaving a slide of mud and shingle, covered by a few inches of flowing water.
“Dismount,” ordered the Captain, “we’ll have to lead the horses.”
With the reins in her hand and the warmth of her horse at her shoulder, Anstey waited her turn, watching as the soldiers and animals splashed to where Captain Ward supervised the operation from the other side of the water.
“You next, miss,” said Sergeant Wright. “Let your horse find his own way and look out for yourself.” Obediently she moved forward, holding the reins lightly and picking her way from boulder to boulder that showed above the muddy water. She had almost reached the other side, wavering on one stone while searching for another with none in suitable distance, when Captain Ward stepped forward and reached out his hand.
“I can manage,” she told him, unwilling to accept his aid.
“I daresay, but I am less interested in your ability than in the length of time we are kept waiting while you are afraid to get your feet wet.”
Hands closed around her waist and she was lifted bodily through the air and deposited on dry ground with scant respect for her dignity. Glaring at the Redcoat’s back as he impatiently waved on the remai
ning troopers, Anstey smoothed her ruffled clothes and ignored the knowing grins from the watching soldiers.
Pointedly turning her shoulder, she remounted her horse and seated in the saddle ostentatiously gave her attention to the surrounding views; not even to herself would she acknowledge that when James Ward had lifted her, there had been one second of helplessness, when she had felt something very like pleasure in his nearness and strength. The emotion puzzled her and she firmly refused to even contemplate it, turning her mind instead to their journey and the miles that had still to be covered.
CHAPTER FIVE
Perplexed by her own emotions, her mind filled with uneasy thoughts, Anstey rode on, preoccupied and withdrawn. The headache and sore throat, that had vaguely bothered her for days, gradually became worse until by the time they reached Edinburgh, she could hardly lift her eyes for the pain that raged in her head.
She had never seen the capital, and a few months ago would have given much for the opportunity of visiting the city about which she had heard so much, but now she could raise no interest as they travelled along its narrow streets lined with tall grey stone buildings, dissected by dark mysterious openings leading into dim closes.
By morning she had developed a heavy cold with all its accompanying miseries, not least of which was the lack of a handkerchief to mop her streaming nose. Gazing down at the rows of close-built houses from the walls of the castle, she followed the line of the Long Mile with her eyes as it headed towards Holyrood Palace, and inevitably her mind was drawn towards the man who had caused her and her country so much heartache.
“What news of the Prince?” she found herself asking the Sergeant who happened to be standing by her while they waited for Captain Ward to arrive.
“The Pretender, you mean, miss?”
“I would hardly be enquiring after the Hanoverian usurpers,” she answered with asperity. “I mean the rightful heir to the throne of Scotland - and England.”
Sergeant Wright looked uneasy and shifted his weight unhappily from one foot to the other, but was saved from the necessity of answering by the presence of his superior officer, who had come up unnoticed.
“See to the men, Sergeant,” said Captain Ward quietly and turned to Anstey. His broad shoulders shut her off from the milling soldiers, forming an illusion of privacy as he stared down at her, his eyes stern. “Have a care what you say, Miss Frazer,” he warned. “Your rash unguarded tongue could lead you into trouble.”
Anstey laughed scornfully. “More than I am already?” she wondered and suddenly irritated beyond measure by her uncomfortable symptoms, by the cold wind whipping up the hill and across the courtyard and most of all by the calm assurance of the man in front of her, she lashed out in anger, wanting to shake the Englishman’s cool arrogance.
“Do you know what we call the Butcher Cumberland?” she asked, her voice pitched loud enough to carry to the ears of the nearby soldiers. “There’s a pretty flower that has a strong perfume which you English call Sweet William - well, we call it Stinking Billy in his honour.”
James Ward’s lip curled. “What an exceedingly silly female you are,” he remarked, not attempting to hide the contempt he felt. “If I didn’t know your nose was sore from lack of a handkerchief, that your head was fit to burst and that you were chilled to the bone ... if in fact I was not an understanding English gentleman, willing to make allowances for the infantile wiles of a stupid woman, you would be feeling the Sergeant’s belt across your back even now. As it is, I’ll pretend I haven’t heard your childish outburst - and make you a present of my linen square.”
Anstey accepted his handkerchief ungratefully, glowering after his upright back as he walked away, barely restraining herself from the luxury of stamping her foot.
“You was asking after the Stuart prince,” said Sergeant Wright at her elbow, speaking quietly for her ears alone. “He’s still free - in spite of the reward that’s being offered.”
“No one will betray him,” she said, her eyes shining with pride. “However much is offered, no Scot will give him up to you.”
The Sergeant shrugged. “We’ll see,” he said. “It’s a lot of money, and I’ve seen for myself how poor some of your countrymen are.”
“Poor but loyal,” she told him fiercely.
“Daft some’ud call it. What’s it matter who’s king as long as there’s a roof over your head and your belly’s full?” He began to urge her towards the horses.
Anstey stopped in her tracks. “Sergeant!” she exclaimed shocked. “Have you no soul? No sensibility? No - loyalty ?”
Will Wright was amused and showed it. “I follow whoever pays my wages,” he said. “Only rich folk can afford loyalty.”
This materialistic point of view occupied Anstey’s mind for most of the morning; living as she had in the Highlands where the clan system was still in operation and loyalty to one’s chief an inborn factor of life, she found the Sergeant’s outlook both unexpected and surprising. So busy was she with this intriguing concept that she gave little attention to the road along which she was riding, and when her mount put his hoof on a loose stone she was taken unawares and before she could recover, was pitched over his shoulder into a swirling, velvet darkness.
Surfacing briefly, she found herself wrapped in a cloak lying in the Sergeant’s arms, and wondered at the concern in his face as he looked down at her, before slipping back into unconsciousness. The next time she awoke Anstey found herself in a strange bed, late afternoon sun streaming across the patchwork quilt that covered her. At her movement a girl rose from the window seat and smiling reassuringly left the room.
Anstey gazed about her, taking in the whitewashed walls and low ceiling crossed by old, dark beams. Sounds of people and animals drifted in at the open window, soothing in their normality after the vivid nightmares that had occupied her brain so recently.
The door opened and a motherly woman entered. “How are you feeling, my dear?” she asked.
Wrinkling her brow, Anstey frowned. “I have a headache,” she said, and was surprised by the weakness of her voice.
“That’s only to be expected, after that nasty knock you gave it. The doctor left a soothing draught for you to take when you awoke.”
Obediently Anstey drank the bitter liquid. “Where am I?” she asked, sinking back against the pillows.
“Why, at the Sour Plum in Galashiels to be sure - the best inn in the town, though I say it myself. I’m Molly Barton, the landlady.”
“Have I been here long?”
“Four days, and you in a fever when the soldiers brought you in. Muttering, you were, as the Captain carried you in.”
Anstey’s heart stopped beating. “What was I saying?” she asked, one hand at her throat.
“Now then, there’s no need for you to take on. I’m sure a nice young man like Captain Ward wouldn’t listen to your secrets.” She looked at the girl’s face, white and frightened above the counterpane, and took pity on her anxiety. “You weren’t saying anything to worry about ... something about Isabel, I heard and you begging her not to do something.”
After she had gone Anstey lay against her pillows and wondered what she had said and how much of her secret James Ward had gathered from her ramblings. By evening she had fretted herself into a slight fever again, wondering if she had let fall the fact that her brother had fired the shot that had killed the English officer, when he had come home to find Isabel struggling in his arms, and earned herself a scold from the forthright landlady.
“What are you worrying about?” she asked. “I thought you were on the mend, but if you’re not careful you’ll be ill again. It’s something to do with the Captain, isn’t it?” she went on shrewdly. “Shall I ask him in - I wouldn’t usually have a man in a young lady’s bedchamber but in the circumstances—”
Anstey shook her head, making the room swim, and closed her eyes against the alarming sight. “I’m sorry to be a bother...” Weak tears slid under her eyelids and rolled down her cheeks.<
br />
The landlady patted her shoulder. “Tired, that’s what you are. You have a good sleep and you’ll feel better in the morning.”
Which in part was true; when Anstey awoke her head was clear and the dreadful weakness of the day before was gone, but the worry still filled her mind, nagging at her thoughts to the exclusion of all else as, wrapped in a borrowed shawl, she sat by the window and gazed at the busy street below with unseeing eyes.
The next afternoon Molly Barton appeared carrying a blue brocade dress over her arm. “You’ll feel better dressed properly,” she said briskly. “I told the Captain that I didn’t hold with young ladies wearing breeches in my house and sent over to the seamstress for a gown which I happened to know had been ordered and not collected ... I took the liberty of buying a few other things I knew you’d need.”
Anstey gazed at the pink stays and linen petticoats with real pleasure. “Didn’t he mind?” she wondered.
The landlady snorted. “Didn’t have the opportunity,” she said. “Now come along and I’ll help you to dress, and you’ll feel more yourself.”
After the time spent in masculine attire, Anstey found that to have her ribs encased again in tight, boned corsets was not a total pleasure, though the feel of skirts about her legs and the sight of herself in a becoming gown was very pleasant. Mrs. Barton even managed to gather up her short locks into a knot on top of her head and fasten them there with a length of blue ribbon.
“There,” she said, eyeing her handiwork with approval. “No one’ud think you the same bedraggled little waif they carried in a few days ago. You look a proper pretty young lady. Just wait until that nice young Captain sets eyes on you.”
Anstey looked at the older woman reflectively. “Mrs. Barton,” she asked quietly, “what do you suppose my relationship to Captain Ward to be?”
“Why - I suppose he’s escorting you to your family, I daresay your papa is another army officer.”
Slowly Anstey shook her head. “I wish that was so,” she said regretfully, “but in fact I am his prisoner. I am being taken to London, where I shall stand trial for - for killing an English officer when he came to my house.”